


between the words and the quiet

by riptheh



Category: She-Ra and the Princesses of Power (2018)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, just a short little thing on how the war effects them and how they deal and don't deal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-17
Updated: 2020-06-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:27:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24777628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riptheh/pseuds/riptheh
Summary: Adora gets shaky hands. Catra has boxes. They deal and they don't, but through it all they still have each other.
Relationships: Adora/Catra (She-Ra)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 216





	between the words and the quiet

**Author's Note:**

> okay this was actually for a prompt, 'shaky hands', and turned into a character study? idk. but I've had this sitting around for a while and finally decided to finish and post it. hope you guy enjoy!

She gets shaky hands sometimes.

Catra notices, as she notices all the things she’s not supposed to, and nothing that she should have.

(She noticed every time Adora chose Shadow Weaver over her. She noticed all the little things she did that said ‘I’m better’, and none of the little things that said ‘I love you’, even though they were often one and the same. She notices the wrong things, and the right things, and sometimes both of them at once.)

Adora gets shaky hands and tries to hide them, though she never does a good job, because Catra catches it all the same. She’s got excellent hearing, after all, and when she hears the muffled clinking of the spoon against Adora’s mug when she’s making tea and she can’t quite get the trembling under control, she knows where it’s coming from.

They all have things. Leftovers and dregs, the remnants of the war they fought when they were just teenagers. Catra likes boxes. She always has. When she feels like she’s slowly breaking, she finds a safe square—even a patch of sunlight will do—and curls up inside of it, taking comfort in the illusion of four walls. Her new friends tease her—say it’s the cat in her. Maybe it is. She doesn’t care. She’s older now, and past hiding semblance of weakness.

Adora isn’t quite there—then again, she never really has been. She bites back fear and hurt, swallows it like jagged glass and pretends it doesn’t cut on the way down. When her hands tremble and her cheeks whiten from holding back tears, she only bites her lip and takes it, even though Catra tells her in all but words that she doesn’t have to.

“Are you okay?” she asks when they’re curled up in bed and Adora is reading a book and the page tears a little when she turns it. “Or is the book that bad?”

Adora doesn’t look up, still staring at the page though Catra can tell she’s not really reading it, and then she swallows hard and nods, closing the book and pushing it away.

“Really bad,” she says, tossing it in a manner that suggests she needs it to be as far away from her as possible, and quickly too. “Bow said it was his favorite though. And his dads are librarians, so I figured—”

Catra scoffs, and lowers her head back against Adora’s shoulder. “Last book I saw Bow reading was an encyclopedia of gadgetry. I wouldn’t trust him.”

Beside her, Adora lets out a snort, but doesn’t otherwise respond. Catra can feel her pulse thrumming beneath her touch, heart going like a hummingbird’s, and oscillates between questions she’s not sure she should ask. She’s never been good at this part—not at figuring out her own feelings, and especially not helping Adora work through hers. Throughout their childhood and beyond, she’d always put her own feelings first, out of fear and the razor sharp need to survive. Now, placed in the safety and comfort of peacetime, she has the room to extend a hand, but isn’t sure how to go about it.

So she does the only thing she knows how to do. She presses close, curling around Adora, and lets a purr rumble deep within her chest.

When they were children, it used to put Adora right to sleep. It does now too, but takes a little longer, and when Adora reaches up sleepily to stroke a hand through her hair, Catra can still feel her fingers trembling.

When Adora is fast asleep, Catra extracts herself carefully, and tiptoes to the thrown book. She picks it up, glancing briefly at the cover—not an encyclopedia of gadgetry—then opens it to the torn page.

It’s some kind of thriller, she can tell immediately. The protagonist is a soldier—he goes by his rank—and on the page Catra opens to, he’s right in the middle of a bloody battle, explained in excruciating detail. 

Catra closes the book, her own heart beating fast, and glances to Adora, curled upon their bed. In the darkness, she looks small, but a strip of moonlight splashed across her face reveals an expression caught in some unnameable nightmare. She doesn’t call out—she doesn’t even move—but then, Adora’s always been like that. Except for when she fights in her sleep, she’s quiet. Taking the pain and hurt with the kind of stoicness that befits a hero.

She’s not a hero, but sometimes, Catra thinks she’s the only one who knows that. Who can strip back the dirt and blood and the shining image of She-Ra, and reveal the person underneath. Adora’s always been Adora. Stupid, heroic, self-sacrificing, obnoxious Adora.

Who won’t even call out for Catra, even in her sleep.

Catra stares at her, then shakes the thought from her head. It’s an old, bitter thought, the remnants of the wound between them. She’s long since realized that Adora may need her, but she won’t say it, because she’s had that instinct beaten out of her since childhood. Adora has never let herself want anything, has never let herself need anything, and it’s up to Catra to fill that gap. Reach out, and trust that Adora will be waiting when she does.

So far, she always has been. So after a moment, Catra closes the book, and returns to their bed, curling up so close that she can feel the rise and fall of Adora’s breaths pressed against her side.

It’s not perfect, between the two of them. Maybe it never will be. They both have their issues, their doubts and insecurities and all the things they’ve just started to say, but Catra is starting to realize that that’s probably fine. They carry wounds in more ways than one, and sometimes the most obvious, though the first to be dealt with, aren’t always the deepest.

It took Catra so long to dig deep and figure out just what Adora was saying, even when she shouted it right to her face. Now, she has to search out all the things she isn’t saying, and say her own as well, just to put them on equal ground. Push and pull like a seesaw, and maybe someday, like children trying an impossible task, they’ll manage to balance it perfectly in the middle.

In the meantime, she curls up to sleep beside Adora, snuggling as close as she can, and lets out a low sigh—not quite contented, because she’s still a little worried, but happier than she’s ever been. And in response, Adora shifts, then turns in her sleep and loops one lazy arm around Catra’s shoulders, dragging her close.

She still gets shaky hands. Catra still has boxes. But in the meantime, they have each other too, and it’s not entirely enough, but it’s a great start.


End file.
